If you're going through Hell
by C.Watherston
Summary: You might get out before the Devil even knows. The Serenity crew is going through Hell. A word-prompt piece; take up the challenge.


"_We're still flying" _

"_That's not much" _

"_It's enough" _

"Kaylee!"

Kaylee Tam-Frye ran, her boots clunking on the metal, and dropped, sliding along the ground to thump into the wall. Smoke billowed above her head and she twisted with the fire extinguisher, letting loose. Gasping, she stood, throwing the canister away, then screamed as the heat along her side registered. Spinning in a panicked circle she beat the flames licking along her arm and thanked her lucky stars that she wore long sleeves.

Dropping to her knees, she hacked through a coughing fit, eyes streaming, and her mind concentrating only on the heart of the ship before her. All around her, the engine room was red with warning, as though the walls were awash with _Serenity_'s blood.

"Tzao gao!" she muttered, reaching to retrieve a spanner from the floor and wiping her eyes. Without another word, she was among the destruction of her home, fixing the damage, splinting their wings.

"Simon!"

Somewhere, outside the bar, something exploded. Screams added to the inferno of chaos and audible terror. Simon Tam held a handkerchief to the ribs of a sobbing woman, head down as all around him the town burned, bullets blazed and people died. A projectile hissed past his ear, so close he felt its heat, but he ignored it.

"Keep that pressure on!" he ordered and crawled down the line. Here a man coughed thick lumps of blood past broken lips, there a young boy died with a gun in his hand, further on a woman was bent over the corpse of a small child. Rage, terror, grief and helplessness ran as one vile concoction in Simon Tam's blood and he tore the remains of his shirt again, yanking it tight around the bullet wound of a man about to pass out from the pain. As this soldier battled for consciousness, Simon gathered his breath and bravery and stood, firing three rapid shots over the top of the cover he had flung himself behind to assist this man.

He saw a Purple-Belly fall with a shudder of victory that disgusted him. In his mind he heard his own voice, younger, less worldly, sheltered and ideological, as the words of the Hippocratic oath tumbled easily from his lips. Then he heard his voice now; gruffer, louder, the polished scraped off and dirt flung on.

"River!"

She is a creature of extraordinary grace; a dancer, a girl, an enigma and a killer. How she flows from strike to block, from pretty teen to a merc as hardened as the next, is graceful as grass bending in a gentle breeze. It does not rock or jerk, it _flows_ like tangible water as it snaps a neck her, turns the gun point on its wielder, tumbles, dives and stands again to parry blows with a man twice her size, his cold, cruel face an unpleasant contrast to his Alliance uniform.

She is beautiful, she is dangerous, she is gentle and she is fierce. She is perfectly aware of what she is capable of and why she is here, moving among the ranks with the darting agility of a dragonfly. She is here to keep her family safe, to safeguard the shelter and protect.

"Mal!"

Aim, fire, reload. It's a pattern, a rhythm, that is never forgotten, much like the easy lope of a good horse beneath you. It's headshot, between the body armour, in the legs, in the throat. It's one shot and move on. It's the thump of your heart and the thump of the shot hitting home. It the hot blood streaming down your side to remind you you're still alive, not just caught in some Purgatory reliving the worst moments of your life until you are penitent.

It's that split seconds silence before the pain arrives when you realise you've been hit. Then falling back and the last thing you see before your eyes close is-

"Inara!"

She hits the wall and slides down it, breath ragged whistles between her clenched teeth as she presses one perfectly manicured nail to the wound that has opened in her shoulder, blood blossoming between her bruised and battered fingers. Her quiver, almost empty, falls to her side, and she tightens her grip on her bow.

Buddha help her, this is not where she is meant to be. She is not a warrior, not a soldier. She is a lover, a beautiful thing to be kept on a mantelpiece and discussed with envious friends. At least, she was. She was until she met a pirate and his crew who reminded her what anger felt like. Who reminded her of childhood, where there was more than one kind of passion.

The passion of anger, of ecstatic joy and of pain. Yes, passion was painful. After all, wasn't that what lead them here?

"_Somebody needs to speak for these people-"_

"Zoe!"

She knows pain. Pain is familiar. She thinks through the pain. Enough, at least, to know she is out of ammo and needs a new gun. By her side are three men whose names she doesn't even know, but in the last two hours of fierce, bloody battle, they have become practically her siblings for all their blood that has been spilt and mixed together on the dusty ground.

She slams her shottie into its holster and plucks a gun from the dead fingers of a nearby corpse. Checking it, she steps out of the shelter and fires; aim, fire, recoil, aim, fire, recoil, duck-

The explosion throws her off her feet and into a wall. As stars dance in front of her eyes like they did when Washburn held her, she heard his voice and smiled; the only time she ever did anymore. In this black matrix between life, death and unconsciousness, there is a moment that she can _see _him, standing over her, looking worried. Feel his touch against her cheek.

"_C'mon lambie-toes. You're not done yet" _

"Jayne!"

When in ruttin' hell had he gotten in this deep? When in the depths o' hell had he come to give a _guai _what happened to this crew?

Sometime 'tween Ariel and Miranda, he decided grumpily, grabbed Mal by the collar of his brown coat and dragging him back behind cover. Vera laid down some cover fire and he leaned down to check the capt'ns pulse. Still there, still beating.

Jayne stood, ran, fired, punched out a gunner, slit a throat, traded blows, pulled the trigger, ignored the pain. He sat heavily with his back to the wall, wiped another man's blood from his features and wished he had a cigar.

"Wuh de tyen, ah" said Mal.

His crew turned with him to look down the Main street of the ruins which had once been a thriving Rim town. Jayne grunted and shifted the conscious weight of River Tam in his arms. He did not complain, even though there was a chunk of flesh missing from his bicep and his blood was congealing on her shoulder and neck.

"We're done all we can, sir. We leave now, we'll be gone before the Devil even knows we were here" said Zoe coldly, hitching the sack of credits that they had come for before they got caught up in an Alliance-sanctioned massacre.

Why couldn't it ever go smooth? Thought Mal with a sigh and put his arm around Inara's waist.

"C'mon then, darlin'" he said tiredly.

As one, the crew of the _Serenity _limped home.

**A/N: Here is my challenge to you, those of you readers looking for a challenge. **

**Prompt: If you're going through Hell, keep on going. You might get out before the Devil even knows you're there- Rodney Atkins, If you're going through Hell. **


End file.
